It was past midnight. The rain continued to pour over the tall buildings and grounds that belonged to Sexton. Lightning struck, followed by thunder that shook all fragile elements, including the windows of Lucian's room.
He sat at his desk, working on the last few notes of his thesis—a treatise for the future, which needed to be submitted as part of his class. He dipped the quill in the ink bottle before gliding it across the parchment. He enjoyed the solitude of these late hours, when the halls were still and he could immerse himself in his work without interruption.
When he was done, he placed the pages into his drawer and leaned back, stretching his neck backwards and staring at the ceiling. The flame crackled, and he straightened, getting up from his seat when his eyes fell to the couch in the room—it was empty.
